The wood is decked in light green leaf. The swallow twitters in delight. The lonely vine sheds joyous tears Of interwoven dew and light. <p> Spring weaves a gown of green to clad The mountain height and wide-spread field. O when wilt thou, my native land, In all thy glory stand revealed?

No sound doth great the still of night; My mother land in silence lies; Yet oft is heard an anguished moan As Georgia in her slumber sighs. <p> I stand alone … the mountains, shades The slumber of my land caress. O God! O God! when will we wake And rise again to happiness?

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